


big god

by Eremji (handsfullofdust)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Happy Sex, M/M, Misunderstanding, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, bruce banner parties hard, handwaving thanos away, implied Natasha/Valkyrie, this premise was definitely not taken from a pop music video
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-26 19:21:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18184706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handsfullofdust/pseuds/Eremji
Summary: In hindsight, Bruce should’ve been suspicious the moment the Hulk didn't try to surface immediately after the third drink. That’s about when the dog and pony show started up in his brain. He doesn’t remember much after that.Bruce has a little misunderstanding with some really positive results.





	big god

**Author's Note:**

> I got drunk and watched Katy Perry music videos and thought, "What if –" and then proceeded to laugh at myself every time I tried to open the doc. It took me forever to finally finish it, mostly because I was too pleased with the idea to actually work on it. This is silly and sweet and is 100% only here to show Bruce Banner a good damn time.
> 
> Some other people hook up in the background. Feel free to Choose Your Own Adventure where they're concerned.
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](https://eremji.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Eremji).

‘ _This ain't no mistake_  
_You make my earth quake_  
_You feel like thunder in the sky_ ’  
\- Jessie J ‘ _Thunder_ ’

 

*

  
In hindsight, Bruce should’ve been suspicious the moment the Hulk didn't try to surface immediately after the third drink. That’s about when the dog and pony show started up in his brain. He doesn’t remember much after that.

*

  
Tony won't shut up, and he's talking so fast that Bruce can't really follow what he's nattering about. That's not really remarkable, that’s just standard for interacting with Tony, but the angle he's standing at is. Bruce has gone over it about three dozen times in his head and even compensating for the hefty margin of error allowed by eyeballing the angles, there's no way physics can support the way Tony's standing.  
  
Thor leans over him, beaming, and says, “I do not agree, Stark. Bruce acquitted himself quite admirably.” When he does, Bruce experiences two distinct emotions: a moment of intense smugness that Thor’s apparently on a first name basis with him, and then sweeping relief at the realization that it's Bruce that's sitting at an angle, and not Tony Stark defying gravity.  
  
Sometimes the problem needs to be viewed from a different perspective. “Thanks, buddy,” he says, tilting his head back to look at Thor. The room spins.

*

  
Bruce slings his arm over his face to block out the sunlight. He’s never been a morning person, at least not until he’s on his third cup of coffee – and he gave that up when the big green guy decided caffeine jitters were a hand-delivered declaration of war.  
  
The mid-morning sun feels good on his skin, searing hot the way a nice day in the summer sometimes is, but that’s about the best he can say for his condition. Bruce aches all over, mouth cottony, and when he turns his head to squint at his alarm clock, he feels slightly nauseous.  
  
His alarm clock isn't there. In fact, he’s not even in his own bed. Which, okay, not necessarily strange, given his line of work, because maybe he crashed at one of Tony’s multitudinous upscale flophouses – but Tony doesn't have what is clearly a _big red cape,_ and if he did, he wouldn't have left it hanging over the back of an armchair.  
  
Bruce turns his head the other way, squinting against the bright light streaming through the open window. He’s definitely got a hangover, which should be impossible. Groping blindly, he finds his glasses on the bedside table, and as soon as he can see clearly, he immediately wishes he couldn’t.  
  
No one in their right mind could accuse Thor of being unattractive. He isn’t really Bruce’s type, which has historically tended towards short, tenacious women, but Bruce can securely acknowledge that Thor has an ass that belongs in an art museum and the kind of ridiculously large biceps that Bruce – definitely at sixteen and maybe even a little now – only ever dreamed of owning.  
  
His eyeful of Thor’s bare, muscular bottom isn't offensive so much as it is very, very unexpected.  
  
Bruce tries to make an escape, but his quiet exit is foiled by one of Thor's heavy arms draped across his waist, shattering any dream of salvaging his dignity.  
  
Thor is sprawled out next to him, face down and disconcertingly muscular. His feet are tangled in the sheets, but the rest of him is bare, from the nape of his neck to the swell of his ass that rises and falls into a pair of strong legs. At this angle, Bruce can see the lines of old battle scars, thin and silvery-white, and the peach fuzz of soft, blond hair at the small of his back.  
  
The most exciting thing about Bruce’s body is that he has a pretty gnarly scar from getting his appendix out. Bruce swallows hard.  
  
Thor's good, blue eye opens, and even though he’s had some time to resign himself to his fate, Bruce still goes rigid with embarrassment. Thor seems completely and utterly unconcerned. He blinks a few times, then pushes himself up on one elbow, and his voice is bassy, gravelly, when he says, “Good morning, Bruce,” so low that Bruce feels it in his belly. His hair is still buzzed short, so Bruce gets a front row, center stage view of the way his muscles bunch and shift.  
  
“Uh,” Bruce says, making the only move he knows how in this situation. “Good, uh, morning? Is – is it morning?”  
  
“It may be afternoon,” Thor admits. He rolls onto his back and – _oh God_ – Bruce gets a pretty scenic view. The arm is gone, at least, but Bruce is also incredibly naked, only the sheets preserving the shreds of his modesty. “We were drinking well into the evening.”  
  
“What –” Bruce starts, staring steadily up at the ceiling, “– what did I have?”  
  
“An Asgardian liquor. We thought it impossible to reproduce with the destruction of our home, but Valkyrie was able to secure several casks,” Thor says, and his easy-going warmth is unexpectedly contagious even though Bruce feels like an elephant sat on his skull.  
  
Bruce remembers that much; all of them gathered, the remaining Asgardians; Steve and Bucky sitting close and talking quietly to one another in cautious undertones; Natasha with her arm slung over the back of the couch and stockinged feet tucked under her, smiling up at Valkyrie like a cat with a can of tuna. Others had joined, but Bruce took one drink, two, and can't remember much of the rest.  
  
He isn't entirely sure how he ended up naked in bed with Thor, but he’s pretty sure that the alcohol must have lubricated a series of increasingly poor judgment calls.  
  
“I, uh, don't remember much,” Bruce admits – awkwardly, because he never thought he’d be the kind of guy to get into a situation like this, much less the kind of guy who gets so drunk he has absolutely no recollection of getting laid by someone the approximate size of a compact car. “Sorry.”  
  
“No need to apologize, my friend,” Thor says with typical cheer. He heaves himself up and fishes around for his clothing, bare-assed and completely unselfconscious; he comes up with a pair of worn and faded jeans, so he must be sticking around on Earth for a while. “You comported yourself admirably.”  
  
If Bruce could sink into the ground and disappear forever, he would. Barring a miracle, all he really has is a faulty spot in his memory, a sheet, and plausible deniability. At least Tony isn't around to crow about it, loudly, and Bruce can't recall Thor ever bragging about his one night stands, if he ever had any.  
  
“Thanks,” Bruce says, because he can't imagine what _admirably_ must have been, and he's not sure he ever wants to try.

*

  
Natasha has the kind of glow about her that makes Bruce think he wasn't the only one that had a little fun, but she looks pleased enough that she might actually remember all of it. She slides into the bench next to him and sets a steaming paper cup of herbal tea in front of Bruce. He gets a whiff of peach and maybe warm undertones of hot honey.  
  
For someone so good at espionage, her raised eyebrow makes it pretty obvious that she’s looking for some intel.  
  
“I don't know what happened,” Bruce says. He isn't sure why he feels apologetic, but it's an uncomfortable effect Natasha has on people – the subtle disappointment in the tilt of her mouth, maybe. Some subliminal spy trick, or something. “I don't remember.”  
  
“Mm,” she says, and kicks him in the ankle when he opens his mouth to explain further. He says, “Ow,” just in time for Bucky to wander blearily into the kitchen with his shirt unbuttoned.  
  
Bruce thinks it’s Bucky's shirt, anyways. It could be anyone’s. Bruce isn't sure, and he isn’t willing to make a guess since he always seems to be the last one to catch on to those kinds of things.  
  
There’s a distinct, if fading, impression of teeth on Bucky’s left pectoral. Bucky ignores both of them, which isn't unusual, and fishes around in the cabinets for something to eat. It's a little bit like watching a nature documentary about hyenas, except without David Attenborough narrating.  
  
Low and crisp out of the corner of her mouth, Natasha says, “Looks like I just won my bet with Sam.”  
  
“I can hear you, you know, _Nachynka_. I may be old, but my ears still work,” Bucky says darkly, then makes off with the entire jug of orange juice, grumbling in Russian.  
  
Bruce looks at Natasha with raised eyebrows; she shakes her head almost imperceptibly, then smiles broadly over her coffee cup. “Hi, Thor. Thank you for the hospitality.”  
  
Bruce starts when Thor, apparently directly behind Bruce, and eerily sneaky for someone his size, says, “Indeed, it was my pleasure.”  
  
“Your pleasure, huh?” Natasha asks, slanting a sly gaze towards Bruce. When Bruce glares back, her expression shifts to innocence, and it’s surprisingly unconvincing. Bruce thinks it’s meant to be. She knows what she’s doing.  
  
“Sincerely, yes,” Thor says, either completely oblivious to her meaningful glances or immune to them. He claps a friendly hand on Bruce's shoulder and Bruce is aware of just how damn big Thor is for the second time in an hour. “It was good to celebrate in the company of friends.”  
  
“Yeah,” Bruce says. He swivels on the bar stool, facing Thor, because he feels like he has to wrestle control of the narrative from Natasha – who is smiling more and more broadly every second. It's a little creepy, mostly because it seems totally genuine. “Thank you. I had a really amazing time last night.”  
  
He thinks he did, anyways, even if his liver and kidneys feel like they're trying to shrivel up and die. He'll probably be fine after breakfast and a few glasses of water, but the big green guy doesn't seem to be interested in pitching in to expedite with his regeneration skills.  
  
Beaming, Thor unhands Bruce and goes straight for the box of Pop Tarts above the spice rack. Bruce is still a little stymied about Thor's eating habits, but Bruce guesses spending and introductory period on Earth with two scientists that thought beer and Chinese takeout were fine dining – and then being babysat by a lab assistant that still regularly puts Bugles on her fingers – might color anyone's experience with local cuisine.  
  
A little hysterically, he thinks about calling Darcy and asking for advice. She seems like exactly the kind of person who wouldn’t panic about waking up in bed with a hot guy. It’s not like he can ask _Natasha_ for advice.  
  
“Please feel free to stay as long as you like,” Thor says, making a magnanimous gesture, brushing crumbs from his beard. “I have some personal business to attend to this morning, but it would be my pleasure to host you.”  
  
“You holding in there?” Natasha asks, once Thor's safely out of earshot. She's starting to actually look concerned.  
  
Bruce squints down into his steaming mug like it might hold some secret answer from the universe, some sort of guidance. “I’ve never done this kind of thing before.”  
  
“You should probably just go talk to him.” Steam curls up from her cup and she blows on it. She grimaces at the first sip. “Might want to shower first, though. You smell like a mini bar.”  
  
“I am _so_ screwed,” Bruce says into his hands.  
  
“Maybe,” Natasha says thoughtfully, stirring another spoonful of sugar into her coffee. “If you're lucky, anyways.”

*

  
Bruce isn't a coward. He knows he isn't, but the sound of his blood rushing in his ears while he stands for way too long outside Thor's workshop might suggest otherwise.  
  
The workshop is shadowy and arid, lit mostly by the glow of the open forge in the center of the room. Thor is at a massive anvil, twice the size of any that Bruce has ever seen, working a piece of vibranium into an axe. Bruce thinks so, anyways; he's a little behind on his martial weapon shapes, and extremely distracted by the view. Thor's stripped down to his jeans and wearing nothing but a heavy leather apron to protect the wide barrel of his chest from stray sparks.  
  
“Please, come in if you like,” Thor says, fixed on his work. His muscles flex as he raises his arm and brings the forge hammer down on the axe head. For all the force behind it, it lands with unerring precision and a bright, ringing sound unique to vibranium. “I'll only be a moment before this stage is complete.”  
  
Bruce closes the door with a soft _click_ and drifts anxiously towards Thor's gadgetry, hoping for a moment to compose himself. Strewn across various work surfaces are devices that Bruce knows can't be from Earth, some partially disassembled. Bruce recognizes some of it from his time on Saakar, and some from Thor's ship. Trinkets, baubles, some of them data chips with no surviving interface. Bruce lifts one pale, crystalline memory module and examines it in the light filtering in from the high, narrow windows.  
  
Maybe once he gets back on even ground, Bruce can turn his talents to creating way to retrieve the information. He can only imagine what it must be like for Thor to hold history in his hand while knowing it's impossible to access.  
  
They all thought Thor might be a little simple when they first met him. Bruce sees why Thor would be happy to prolong that illusion; humans have barely taken baby steps towards the kind of science and tech that Asgard could claim. Miracles from every corner of the universe easily outshine Earth's technology. The Bifrost allowed knowledge-hungry Asgardian rulers to take by the sword whatever they couldn't trade.  
  
Thor spent fifteen hundred years immersed in technology so advanced it looks like magic. It would take more than Bruce's lifetime to take it apart and understand it even half as well as Thor does. Thor isn't a scientist, and Bruce isn't a fighter, but maybe they have more in common than expected.  
  
The hammering stops, the silence all the more palpable for it. Bruce starts at the ripping hiss of metal being plunged into a barrel of water to cool. “I can come back later if there's a better time.”  
  
“Nonsense. I've just finished,” Thor says. He joins Bruce at the workbench and peels his apron off, his chest sweaty and smudged with soot and stunningly wide. “T'Challa has allowed me access to the Wakandan vibranium supply, in order to work it in the Asgardian manner. Vibranium was not in common use when my people had access to dwarven forging, but I was still taught the old ways.”  
  
“I think that's really great of him,” Bruce says, meaning it. And it is, it's really great of T'Challa. It's great of everyone, to move aside and allow Thor and the last of his people to settle on Earth. Thor assured Bruce there would likely be others, once news of Thanos’ defeat spreads beyond the rim of their galaxy, wayward children of Asgard returning to their people from the far reaches of space to rebuild. “I'm glad you're enjoying yourself.”  
  
Thor's answering smile is like rain on a summer day, and the affability of it melts all the way down to Bruce's bones. It sits in his belly, heavy and tentative. He came here to tell Thor nothing else could happen, that he wasn't interested, that he was sorry, but he hoped that wouldn't change anything – but he can't look away from Thor, can't stop trying to imagine what happened in that gap between last night and this morning. He doesn't know, and not knowing tears at him.  
  
“Look, I'm not really sure how to say this,” Bruce says, doing his level best to look brave. Thor is giving him a soft, perplexed look. Bruce can barely stand it, because people like Thor have historically never given Bruce the time of day, and he doesn't like being pitied. “Look, Thor –”  
  
“Yes?” Thor asks, setting his hammer back on its pegs. It hits Bruce all at once how amazingly ill-timed the whole encounter is: Thor is shirtless, damp, his skin flushed. It makes Bruce feel like swallowing his tongue, when all he came to do is clear the air.  
  
“I know that I'm not really –” Bruce says, then shakes his head, frustrated. He shouldn't sell himself short, like Natasha says. “I know I'm not really – your, you know –”  
  
“Are you unwell?” Thor asks, bending to peer at Bruce with a look of extreme concern.  
  
It puts Thor in striking distance, so Bruce, in not actually the most impulsive moment of his entire life, reaches up and manhandles Thor into a kiss.  
  
Thor stiffens, going rigid, maybe with shock or the fact that Bruce's efforts are more along to a surprise bear mauling than actual intimacy. The bottom drops out of Bruce's stomach and he has time to experience the sheer terror of completely misjudging a situation, and then – and _then_ –  
  
Like the tumblers clicking into place, like a key into a lock, Thor kisses him back. He inches one hand beneath Bruce's ass, unmistakable in intent, the other cupped at the nape of Bruce's neck. Bruce could never have guessed what kissing a large, bearded alien with a few dozen centuries of experience might be like, but it doesn't disappoint. Thor makes a soft sound, a rumble low in his chest, like distant thunder, and opens his mouth against Bruce’s.  
  
Bruce's kissed other men, back in college before he really nailed down who he thought he was, before Betsy and her interminable grace. Thor's a little different; it's like coming up against a solid concrete wall, but soft, with warm, calloused hands and a gentle touch. Maybe they should talk about it, but the hand that creeps under his shirt, petting at the small of Bruce's back, more than communicates Thor's interest in letting Bruce get them both horizontal.  
  
“Bruce,” Thor murmurs, tender, his mouth red from the ravenous way Bruce has been worrying it with his own. His fingers press firm at the base of Bruce's skull, lips parted, and the only reason Bruce recognizes the look that Thor is giving him is because he's seen it on his own face in the mirror after he and Betsy were together the first time. Something sweet, stunned, an epiphany altogether unexpected.  
  
“Thor – I'm –” Bruce is about to apologize. He doesn't even know why, because it’s pretty damn clear that Thor is interested in whatever insane, unplanned thing that Bruce’s just initiated. Thor cuts him off with another kiss, and Bruce is hefted onto the surface of Thor’s workbench like he weighs absolutely nothing.  
  
Thor palms Bruce's growing erection through his pants, and thumbs at the button. When Bruce arches and sucks in a sharp breath, Thor must take it for permission – and it _is_ , because if he doesn't touch Bruce, Bruce might just implode. He's in danger of coming apart at the seams when Thor undoes Bruce from the collar of his shirt down to his pants, then rubs his stubble against the tender skin where Bruce's neck and shoulder meet.  
  
This could go wrong. He hasn't had sex in – well, not since before his little accident that left him with his mean and green alter ego. He's always been afraid of losing control, but with Thor that doesn't seem to be much of a hazard. Thor, at least, could go toe to toe if the big guy decided to have any sort of opinion on the issue.  
  
Thor's eyelashes are golden up close, and Bruce can’t stop looking even though it’s rude to stare. It’s absurd how gorgeous he is, and when Thor undoes the button of his own pants and steps out of them, Bruce can feel himself go red. The sight of Thor disrobing, the knowledge of what’s about to happen, leaves him with a shocky, molten feeling in his chest and belly, a little fear and a lot of awe.  
  
He lets his gaze drop. Thor’s no less significant under his clothes than he is above them. His cock’s hard, leaking, and the sight of it curving up towards Thor’s belly, pink and jutting from a bed of neat golden curls, makes Bruce forget every single word in every single language he’s ever learned.  
  
“Oh my god,” Bruce says, sounding slightly faint even to himself. He thinks it'd be in poor taste to pinch himself, but he feels like he must be dreaming. “Look at you.”  
  
Thor's whole face brightens up like a lighthouse beacon. He drops to his knees, managing to make something so abrupt look so controlled and graceful, and Bruce makes a choking noise. He tugs Bruce's pants and boxers off and sets them aside, then runs his hands up the back of Bruce's legs from ankle to knee, an arcing crackle of electric sensation jolting up Bruce's spine just at the touch. His beard tickles when he plants a kiss on the inside of Bruce's naked thigh, so Bruce squirms, scrabbling at the surface of the workbench for purchase, scattering tools and gears and metal scraps. Thor feathers touches over Bruce's skin that leave Bruce a shuddering, nervous wreck, his cock weeping profusely in anticipation of the suggestive heat in Thor's upward glances.  
  
There have been a lot of things that should've killed Bruce in the last decade, but the sultry, engulfing suction of Thor's mouth closing around his cock may be the one that comes the closest. He doesn't even know who he is any more, getting a very thorough blowjob from his alien coworker, who he apparently already fucked well enough while drunk to earn a repeat performance.  
  
Thor is careful with his teeth, a little too careful, and Bruce puts an encouraging hand on the back of Thor's head, rolling his hips gently up to meet Thor's velvet-wet tongue. Thor makes an encouraging noise and pulls off, and Bruce doesn't expect him to say, “Take your pleasure from my mouth, Bruce,” before he slings Bruce's legs over his massive shoulders in a clear, gut-wrenchingly arousing invitation.  
  
Toes curling, Bruce leans back on one elbow, feet braced on Thor's steady, unmoving shoulders, and fucks sloppily up into Thor's mouth. Thor works his jaw expertly, making sounds of unmistakable enjoyment, his hand on his own cock, which remains frustratingly out of Bruce's line of sight. It's happening too fast, but Bruce can't stop it, can't stop pushing into that willing mouth, past those red lips, driven upward by the eager suction that hollows out Thor's cheeks. He fists his hand in Thor's hair – just the length to get a grip on again – and buries himself all the way in, coming so hard and so fast – oh god, _so fast_ – he sees stars, sees nothing but light and brilliance, like riding the Bifrost but with all of his bones on fire with ecstasy.  
  
Thor wastes no time, surging to his feet, and Bruce doesn't object when he's pushed onto his belly across the worktable, dripping cock still half-hard and trapped between the smooth surface of the table and his own body. Thor's broad tongue presses at the crack of his ass, then against the unsuspecting curl of muscle at what feels like the very center of his body. Bruce, who's never had much more than a shy finger inside his body, is extremely unprepared for how wickedly good it feels to have Thor's beard scrape the sensitive globes of his ass, for how the hard tip of Thor's tongue makes him whine as it circles and then pushes into Bruce. The muscle buckles easily, wet with saliva and already slack with pleasure, and Bruce makes a sound that would be embarrassing in any other context, animal and low and needy.  
  
Out of Bruce’s sight, Thor reaches for something, and Bruce feels like he only has a few remaining brain cells left to speculate what it might be – and to mourn the absence of Thor's mouth on a part of him he didn't know could feel so damn good – before a huge, slippery finger pushes right into his willing body. He feels like he’s being fucked already, the broad digit probing with steady pressure, slicking him up.  
  
“May I take you?” Thor rumbles, bending over Bruce to speak into his ear, but they both know the answer in the way Bruce shoves back against him involuntarily. He’s heavy and strong, and the second finger he works into Bruce goes with surprising ease. Bruce jerks his hips, seeking any amount of friction, some kind of relief, his damp cock skidding across the surface of the table. The slow tormenting strokes Thor makes to the sides of what must be Bruce's prostate are almost worse than not being touched at all. “You need only say.”  
  
As if there was any other answer Bruce would want to give except the, “Yes, _please_ ,” he gasps. His cock is completely rigid again, aching, and the stretch of his body around Thor’s exploring fingers is incredible. Bruce squeezes his eyes closed, the glow of the forge leaving spots of red light behind his eyelids, his mouth slack with pleasure.  
  
Thor shifts his fingers and touches something inside him that makes Bruce feel like he’s melting, murmuring a noise of approval as Bruce muffles his cry into his own forearm. He bends and spreads kisses across Bruce’s shoulders, down his spine, soothing, distracting, and something much larger presses at the tender entrance of Bruce’s body. Thor’s cock isn’t an easy thing to take, but Thor rocks in so incredibly slowly that Bruce wonders if he might die of deprivation before they come to a resolution. His erection flags a little with the initial ache of his body accommodating the oversized intrusion, but Thor reaches beneath him and gives Bruce's cock an encouraging tug and pushes himself home.  
  
“You feel incredible,” Thor says, and Bruce can feel himself flushing, quivering at the praise and the prodigious fullness that he'll certainly pay for later. “I could have you exactly like this a hundred times over and only want more.”  
  
“Please,” Bruce says, and wiggles back fruitlessly. Thor is seated to the hilt in his body but shifting draws the length of his cock over his prostate, heat lightning bursting through him. He’s never taken it like this, but he’d let Thor do it again and again, just to feel that stretch and tenderness and the shuddering heat that makes his skin feel like it’s too tight. Bruce hisses, “God, yes,” before he realizes how on the nose that might be. He doesn’t even care.  
  
A roll of Thor’s hips, and he finds out how little he was prepared for how good that makes him feel. The pace Thor sets is punishing, too much and not enough, the drag of his cock steady and unrelenting and just shy of lifting Bruce towards another orgasm. Bruce realizes they could be there a very long time, Thor taking him like this until he’s loose and used up and aching amazing all the way down to his bones. He doesn’t realize he’s been begging for more out loud until Thor’s rumbling chuckle precedes a soft, “Patience, when the time is right,” and Thor smoothing a gentle hand over Bruce’s hip.  
  
Like a crackle of electricity before a thunderstorm, the timbre of the air slowly changes, a gathering hum power and potential. Bruce can barely remember his own name when Thor’s confident, sure strokes begin to stutter and falter. He lifts Bruce against him like Bruce weighs almost nothing, like Thor can easily take whatever he wants – and, _fuck_ , Bruce would let him, is happy to be helpless with Thor's strong limbs caging him, like Bruce is small and normal and couldn't possibly have a way to escape from his careful, iron-banded grip.  
  
Thor turns Bruce’s face with one big hand and kisses him, wet and thorough, keeping rhythm with his strokes even as he nips and sucks at Bruce’s lower lip, his tongue, meshes their mouths together with stuttering breaths. They're back to torso, Thor deep in him, so deep, hand clutched around the leaky length of Bruce’s cock. He pumps faster, faster, until Bruce cries out and comes in sticky spurts between Thor’s fingers and Thor drives home firm and fast one last time, filling Bruce with the heat of his body.  
  
Bruce’s knees buckle and Thor eases them both off the table and down onto the floor of the workshop, tangled together and wonderfully sticky. Every part of him is thrumming, resonating like a well-tended engine, his heart pounding in his chest. He feels good, so good, like he’s been taken apart and put back together better than before. Thor crackles visibly with gathered electricity, little static sparks that dance between their bodies and slowly die away.  
  
All he can do for the span of a few minutes is try, and fail, to catch his breath. He puts a hand to his chest, feeling his heart pound, dazed, and wonders if Natasha knew this would happen when she was encouraging him to confront Thor head on.  
  
“That was –” Bruce blinks rapidly, half blind without his glasses. He’s not sure at what point he lost them, but he really doesn’t care all that much. He feels so relaxed that he isn’t even worrying about the big green asshole living in his head, though he might have to investigate the fact that the guy he just slept with shot _sparks_ out of his skin. “Really good. Thanks. Uh. Thank you.”  
  
Amused, Thor says, “It has been some time since I've lain with a man, but I still remember, I think.” He curls around Bruce, propped up on one elbow, head in his palm. “Had I known you were interested, we might have enjoyed ourselves sooner.”  
  
Bruce, still dazed, but not completely down for the count, takes a few seconds to parse that. “Sooner? Wait – but wait, _wait_ – you mean we didn't sleep together at the party?”  
  
Thor's eyebrows shoot towards his hairline. “We didn't,” he says, “though, as I said, had I known that you were interested, I might have discussed the matter with you upon waking.”  
  
“No – I wasn't – I mean, I was, I'm sorry,” Bruce mutters. The height of Thor's eyebrows increases with each protest. “I'm making a total ass of myself. Yes, I want to now, but when I woke up, I assumed we'd already –”  
  
He might have felt embarrassed, except for the way Thor collapses to the floor, boneless with laughter, his arm draped over his stomach, shaking with mirth. His mistake, his terrible misunderstanding, his absolute misstep but –  
  
Thor's laughter is infectious, inoffensive, and when he sweeps Bruce into his arms and lands a surprisingly sweet kiss square on Bruce's temple, Bruce finds himself smiling. Thor says, “You joined me in my room because Natasha and Valkyrie were disturbing you, and then demanded to know how Asgard held an atmosphere against the fundamental laws of physics.”  
  
And, honestly, that sounds way more like something Bruce would do. Thor’s laughter slowly peters out, replaced by a soft, comfortable warmth that Bruce can’t help but relish. The way Thor’s hand sits on Bruce’s hip, familiar and proprietary, makes Bruce’s nerves settle. Even rubbed raw with all they’ve been through, Thor’s heart still is a mile wide and booming.  
  
“I seem to be misunderstanding a lot about the universe lately,” Bruce mutters. He feels good, relaxed. There's a strange sensation down low, not so much pain as a tenderness, and he even surprises himself by idly wondering if Thor would be up for another round to help him forget all about his little misadventure.  
  
Once could be a coincidence, a blip in the order of things, an outlier. It takes repeat experiences to make for a good dataset. Maybe he needs a break first, to collect himself, but he thinks he could do that again. Maybe a few more times. Maybe a lot more because, okay, Thor’s bicep is right there, and he hasn’t even had a chance to sink his teeth into it. He’s barely cracked the surface of the scientific potential here. Just because he’s never really been all that interested in it before doesn’t mean he can’t take a new position informed by his recent experience.  
  
He can even think of a few more positions he could take. Bruce gives Thor a sideways look, speculative and appraising. There are too many variables.  
  
“Perhaps there are a few subjects on which I may be able to expand your knowledge,” Thor says, a brightness about his expression, contagious exuberance suffusing him. Bruce has been through a lot lately and very little of it has been good, so he’s happy to let his brain come to a screeching halt when Thor reaches out and cups Bruce's cheek. “If you'd enjoy a few lessons in the matter?”  
  
Bruce rolls onto his elbow to get a better look at Thor, and then says – a little shy but feeling bold – “I’m a man of science,” before pulling Thor, who’s grinning like the sunrise, into another kiss under the fading light from the dying fire.  
  
After a moment, Bruce sits up and asks, “Wait – wait, wait, _wait_ , Natasha and _Valkyrie_?” and Thor’s laughter fills the room all the way to the rafters.


End file.
